


Coffee Cure

by Esteliel



Category: La Comédie Humaine - Honoré de Balzac, Les Chouans - Honoré de Balzac
Genre: Bratty Spies, Coffee, Coffee enemas, Enemas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 04:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20303749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: There is something appealing about the vision of the pale behind wriggling enticingly in his bed, and Hulot, who has so far chosen to deal with the spy’s machinations by doing his best to ignore his presence, suddenly finds himself wondering whether perhaps a more soldierly discipline might not have been the correct approach in rendering Corentin’s presence slightly less annoying.





	Coffee Cure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).

“I really do not think this is necessary.”

The spy is flushed, his eyes dilated. His skin gleams with perspiration.

It is not a view Commander Hulot has ever dreamed of having; neither has he ever harbored any desires to find the frustrating man Fouché has sent him in his own tent, resting on his bed.

The view is not entirely unpleasant, although the mere thought feels treacherous. Fouché’s creature is no soldier. He understands nothing of battle, of honor—and there is honor in meeting one’s foe face to face on the battlefield.

Not that Corentin would be much use on a battlefield.

Still, out of his garish clothes—the scarlet waistcoat, cinnamon coat and trousers of yellow leather draped over his chair so that at a glance it almost looks as if Commander Hulot has taken a mistress with colorful petticoats with him to the battlefield that is the paths and hedges of Brittany—Corentin does not look quite as outrageous. His golden corkscrew curls, damp with sweat, have lost some of their tight coil. Hulot feels a sudden urge to tug on a lock to see if it will still spring back.

Instead, he rests a heavy hand on Corentin’s back.

“You will remember that I am in command of the entire department,” he says. “I will not have it said that I would do less for you than I would for any of my men.”

Corentin releases a hoarse laugh that is far less appealing than the sight of his pale backside. “You are enjoying this,” he mutters.

Hulot almost regrets it when Corentin presses his sweaty face into his pillow, for seeing his expression at what is to come would certainly be reparation enough for the past days of frustration the spy has caused.

“I warned you not to accept any drink or food from a Chouan,” Hulot says, unperturbed. “You should be grateful you are still alive at all. Perhaps after this you will have learned your lesson.”

Corentin makes another protesting sound, but he is too weak to put up much of a fight. Perhaps Hulot should thank the Chouans—they could have picked a worse target to poison. Not that Gérard or Merle would have accepted a drink from a Chouan in the first place.

“I would have given myself away if I had refused the cider.” Corentin’s voice is muffled by the pillow. God’s thunder, how can the man still be talking?

It is not the first time Hulot has seen a man affected by this particular poison. Fortunately, it acts very slowly. It can take days of cramping guts, cold sweat and fever before a man might succumb to it.

As chance would have it, there is a way to cleanse a man of that poison, if the remedy is administered in time—and Hulot has the remedy on hand.

“If you can take the cider, then surely you can take this.”

Hulot cannot deny that there is no small amount of satisfaction in pushing the cold nozzle against the spy’s anus. And to his credit, Corentin does not fight him. Hulot makes certain that the nozzle is fully inside, Corentin’s hole a distracting pink as it spreads for him, before he at last allows the coffee to flow.

He keeps a hand on the small of Corentin’s back, but he would not have needed to. The skin is clammy with sweat beneath his touch, and though Corentin groans in complaint as the coffee begins to fill him, he struggles only half-heartedly.

There is something appealing about the vision of the pale behind wriggling enticingly in his bed, and Hulot, who has so far chosen to deal with the spy’s machinations by doing his best to ignore his presence, suddenly finds himself wondering whether perhaps a more soldierly discipline might not have been the correct approach in rendering Corentin’s presence slightly less annoying.

It is an observation he files away for the future, together with the glimpse of Corentin’s cock, which has begun to fill as well.

When Corentin makes another protesting sound, not even half of the coffee within him yet, Hulot decides to put his theory to the test. The swat to the spy’s buttocks is playful, although immensely satisfying. Hulot has not hit hard enough to even leave a mark, but instead of angry protest or sullen compliance, it gains him a sound that is tellingly close to a whimper, Corentin’s bottom wriggling as if he is asking for more.

It has to be the fever, Hulot concludes, although it is a pretty vision. With the outrageous clothes gone and his annoying tongue muffled by the pillow, Corentin is far more palatable.

“It is for your own good,” he says strictly, which gains him another protesting sound. “Or would you rather I leave you to die a slow death by poison? I was half tempted to let you reap what you have sowed. Be grateful that I know Fouché to be a sensible man; I cannot see why he would send you, and with such a distasteful plan, but I will not have it be said that I let a man under my command die.”

Corentin groans again. He really is quite pretty, naked and flushed. He does not have the lean muscles of Merle or the heroic scars of Gérard, but stripped and suffering, Hulot feels something close to protectiveness well up in him.

No, he does not like Corentin at all, but now that he is responsible for his wellbeing, he will have to make certain that Corentin survives his mission, if only out of respect for Fouché.

And perhaps, once the poison is purged from his body, the spy will give up, take the women and leave soldiers to fight their war on a battlefield, not in the bedrooms of a ci-devant marquis.

“Enough,” Corentin mutters at last, squirming beneath Hulot’s hand.

The coffee is doing its work, Hulot can feel it; the clammy skin has begun to warm at last.

Hulot bites back a smile as he gets to deliver the good news. “That is only half of it, citizen spy.”

He reaches around Corentin to press his hand against his stomach; Corentin makes another soft, complaining sound, then tenses when Hulot presses down.

“Can’t,” he gasps.

Hulot makes certain that the nozzle is still securely inside him, then strokes his stomach, massaging him until the cramps ease a little.

“That is what you should have said when you were offered this assignment,” Hulot lectures while more of the warm coffee flows into the petulant spy. “Now that you are here, I will not treat you any different to my own men.”

Corentin mutters a muffled curse into the pillow—a rather soldierly expression, Hulot notes with a smile. Just for that, he leaves the nozzle inside him for another minute until Corentin is panting, his hands tight fists clenching around the sheet. His stomach is warm as well now, slightly rounded as Hulot massages it firmly, and this time there are no curses, only the quiet, labored breathing of the spy in his bed.

Corentin’s cock is hard; Hulot can feel it hot and insistent against his wrist as he massages him. He ignores it; Corentin has done nothing to deserve such attention, especially when Hulot had warned him not to accept anything to eat or drink. Had he been one of Hulot’s own men, he would have administered the coffee enema together with the chastisement of his hand; as it is, the spy’s backside will have to remain regrettably unmarked.

Still—Hulot is the leader of the republican army in this part of Brittany, and the department is under martial law…

“There. Now we wait.” Hulot proceeds to pull the nozzle free. He resists the urge to touch the tightly clenching hole. Instead, he gives Corentin’s buttocks a pat.

“Wait?” Corentin mumbles the word in a daze as he writhes becomingly on the bed again before he stops with a groan.

Hulot gives him a merciless laugh. “Half an hour.”

“Fuck you,” Corentin groans, wriggling that pretty rump again so that Hulot’s earlier thought becomes more tempting by the moment. “And fuck those Chouans.”

“That is more soldierly behavior,” Hulot says approvingly. He rests his hand on Corentin’s bottom again and pats it. “I will add ten minutes for that. Now be quiet.”

Another whine escapes Corentin, his hips lifting. “You _can’t_...”

“A thousand thunders, do you truly not know when best to be silent, citizen spy? Will we be here all night?”

Hulot is almost impressed. Any of his men would have reverted to a state of contrite silence long ago. It is, after all, solely Corentin’s fault that he is in this situation.

Corentin gasps and presses his face against the pillow. Hulot has to admit that there is a certain justice in seeing him suffer, and so prettily at that, after all the trouble he has caused Hulot’s half-brigade.

“If you cannot even follow such a simple order,” he says at last, an idea coming to him, “I will remind you that at this moment, citizen, you are under my command, and as such, I will mete out discipline accordingly. Are we understood?” To make the threat more obvious, he follows it with a light slap to that tempting, wriggling bottom that makes Corentin gasp again.

For a long moment, there is silence. Corentin even stops writhing.

No one is more astonished than Hulot that he is feeling a moment of disappointment. The thought of disciplining the spy is surprisingly tempting.

Then Corentin’s hips lift again, his panting interrupted by another breathless moan. Were it one of his own men, Hulot would feel compassion at his plight and his cramping stomach.

Instead, what he has in his bed is a spy not much older than his younger brother, and with just as little sense as Hector, it seems.

“Fuck you, _mon général_,” Corentin says before he gasps again, his back arching as he tenses, and Hulot feels a small measure of admiration.

The spy is either very foolish, or very brave.

Somehow he is certain that by the end of the night, he will know.


End file.
